The Bluebells Are Ringing
by phollie
Summary: Jack is dancing in the garden again. Oswald/Jack/Lacie.


...Well, this one came out of nowhere. I like this pairing a lot more than I thought I did. I've always shipped it, but I guess writing it for the first time brings it out a bit more. Le fun~

I own nothing as usual.

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><p>prompt: 150. silent watcher<p>

soundtrack: every hair on your head – helios

**.the bluebells are ringing**

****/

Jack is dancing in the garden again. Or not so much dancing as swaying, spinning, twirling like some amber cloud decked in silk and luster. In the wild summer sunlight, he's aglow in such a way that's almost unnerving, practically blinding; it's for this reason that Oswald, ever the practical man, keeps his distance, choosing instead to lurk thoughtfully behind the willow tree as Jack all but floats in some mad, merry whirlwind through the haze of bluebells.

Logically, Oswald should be put off by the absurd display, and yet he's quite the opposite – if anything, he could almost call himself _used_ to it by now, if only that phrase didn't carry with it the connotation of Jack being _predictable_. God knows the man is everything but. As Oswald watches Jack's shirttails flutter like the sighs of a ghost behind him, he conjures a comparison between this unreliable creature and that of a bird preparing for flight but not knowing where to fly. That, he thinks, is very much like Jack Vessalius, if one could ever find the words to pin him down with. For all the man's breathless attempts at garnering his own freedom, at stealing a patch of the sky and declaring, _This is mine, this is where I'm meant to go_, Oswald knows very well that Jack, of all people, could never do such a thing; if not for the sheer impossibility of one ever being truly free in this universe, than for the inescapable, glaring fact that Jack Vessalius simply isn't entirely _there_ to begin with.

There's something quite dismal about that, but Oswald can't pinpoint exactly what it is. But even still, as he watches Jack feign all the glory and innocence of youth, with his arms stretched high above his head and his pretty head thrown back, Oswald can distinctly pull out the feeling of being _disturbed_ for him, of perhaps even feeling the first strings of something like pity to pluck at him and make him wince. Surely only Jack could manage to give off such a pained, melancholy air even while in the throes of such thoughtless abandon. What is he dancing for? What is he trying to prove?

Before Oswald can think on this for too long, however, a soft, raspy voice breathes through the silence to his right. "You surprise me."

It's Lacie. It's always Lacie. Oswald blinks to a start and turns to look at her, finding her dressed in every shade of purple and gray. Her hair is draped over her shoulder in a loose braid, her bangs wispy about her forehead and cheeks. She's not smiling, but rather smirking, all-knowing and surreptitious as usual. Nevertheless, Oswald is still sobered at the sight of her after having been dragged to new levels of thought and rumination by Jack. "And why is that?" he asks, genuinely curious. Lacie has never been one to be easily surprised, after all.

His sister's laugh is feather-light and fetching, reminding Oswald of a key being pressed on a piano and left to resonate along the walls in sweet, curling sound. She raises a gloved hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she directs her gaze through the sunlight to find Jack. "I'm waiting for the day," she says, "when you will dance _with_ him for once."

Oswald doesn't think he's all too fond of the teasing note that tilts those words and makes them strange, unreadable. Oswald doesn't like unreadable things, after all, which is precisely what has brought him to this tree in the first place, staring down the lissome blond who deems it as his place to dance away the day as if no one may be watching. Or perhaps Jack _does_ consider that a possibility, given his affinity for inspiring confusion in the minds of others without even meaning to. Oswald's mouth turns down at the thought, absorbed in the man's maze of potentials all over again. "That absolutely will _not_ happen," he says with a sour furrow of his brow.

"Do you think so?" Lacie is clearly unconvinced, says the telling grin that Oswald can hear dripping from her words. "I happen to think otherwise."

"You are free to think as you like," Oswald sniffs, "but that does not change a single thing."

Lacie laughs again and leans against the willow tree, her head lolling to the side and resting atop Oswald's shoulder. Her cheek is warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're so steadfast in your denial, aren't you," she sighs out.

"There is nothing to deny."

"Oh, but there is." And that's all Lacie offers him before she falls into a state of silence both unnerving and relieving. Sometimes Oswald thinks Lacie is much better off containing these idle thoughts of hers, only to come to the conclusion that she speaks his own for him in times like these. That unsettles him, and so he promptly stops paying it any mind and looks back out at Jack, who has decided to flop down in the high grass and lean back on his hands, staring up at the sky. Even at a distance, Oswald can hear him humming some dizzy little tune without a home, without a meaning. For a moment, the world seems to spin in slow motion, and Oswald latches onto that tune as everything shrinks down and is painted surreal in all the lucid brightness.

He realizes with a stinging in his lungs that he's barely breathing – all the more reason for Lacie to laugh at him as he masks it with a tired sigh followed by a sharp inhale to make up for lost breath. "Anyway," Lacie says with a sigh of her own, "I'm sure the boy would be more than pleased for some company." She tilts her scarlet eyes up at Oswald with a mock-docile smile. "It might as well be you, yes?"

But before Oswald can tie a response together on the spot, Lacie straightens, fixes the lace cuff of her sleeve, and bids him a fluttering wave of goodbye, drifting off down the garden path and back to the manor. Oswald watches her with a sinking in his stomach until she's out of sight, then gathers a steadying breath and resumes his quiet watch over Jack without another moment's delay. Jack is reclining on his back now, legs bent at the knee and hands tucked beneath his head, ever humming that tune that somehow slows everything down. Oswald is reluctantly enchanted.

He supposes he can stand to be disquieted by this man for just a bit longer.


End file.
